


The Most Beautiful Sound I Ever Heard

by aron_kristina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Absent mother, Christmas, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Irene Adler does not show up just yet, Kid Fic, Parenthood, Sherlock cheats on his work with Irene Adler, Sherlock has a baby, Single Parents, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:57:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aron_kristina/pseuds/aron_kristina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock opens the door on Christmas Day he does not expect to find a baby outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by C. Comments and concrit welcome.  
> Title from Maria from The West Side Story.

What Sherlock Holmes had expected when he went down the stairs to open the door on Christmas Day was not quite what he got. He had expected one of Mycroft’s minions to stand there with a basket full of Christmas food, or something equally ridiculous, or possibly children singing carols, though it was perhaps too early. What he found, when his eyes had adjusted to the darkness outside, was a cheerfully red baby carrier, complete with baby inside.

It was -2 degrees outside, so Sherlock decided to take the baby inside while he figured out what to do. He put the carrier down on the sofa and then sat down next to it. The baby hadn’t woken, so he felt its forehead, just to make sure it was still alive. It was.

When asked later Sherlock will claim it was the shock of seeing a baby on his front steps that made him miss the envelope tucked between the baby’s blankets and the carrier. As it was, he was too distracted by looking at the baby to see it.

After a while the baby woke up and started screaming. Sherlock had been deep in contemplation, so he jumped when the baby suddenly started showing off its lung capacity. He flailed around a bit, trying to figure out what to do, before deciding on the only sensible course of action.

“John,” he yelled, and the baby started screaming louder as a consequence. Sherlock ran up the stairs to find John already in his pyjamas coming out of the room.

“Morn... Sherlock, is that a baby?” he asked.

“Yes. It seems to have woken up,” Sherlock replied. “I don’t know how to make it silent again.”

John just shook his head and went down the stairs. By the time Sherlock followed John had unwrapped the baby from the blankets and was carrying it close to his chest, bobbing it up and down in a motion Sherlock had seen many parents use. He thought the baby would get seasick from such a thing, but instead it had gone silent. He looked at it. It looked strange, weirdly proportioned, and bald.

“It was too warm, and probably hungry too. Are you going to read the letter?” John said.

“What letter?”

“The one lying in the baby carrier, addressed to you,” John said, and Sherlock immediately snapped it up.

Normal, cheap envelope, but damn, he recognized that handwriting. He opened the letter with a sigh. After he’d read it he sat down heavily on the sofa and John snatched the letter, without disturbing the baby.

‘Dear Sherlock,

this one is yours. As I travel a lot I can’t take care of her at the moment. She no longer nurses, so she’ll be fine with substitute. I’m sure your doctor friend can help you figure out the rest. Don’t give her away, I’ll know, and I put you down as the father on her birth certificate.

Love,  
Irene

Ps. Her name is Maria Elisabeth Adler-Holmes’

“This is your kid?” John asked. Sherlock sighed. “Sherlock! Is this your kid?”

“Apparently,” Sherlock said, somewhat lacking his usual sarcasm.

“I though you were married to your job.”

“I cheated,” Sherlock said, standing up and pacing around the room.

“Not that I’m not glad for your sake, but Sherlock, condoms?” John said. “A genius should be able to figure that one out.”

There was silence. Sherlock didn’t look at John.

“Apparently not,” John said. “What now?”

“Paternity test,” Sherlock said. John blinked. “I can do it in the kitchen.”

“I was more thinking food and nappies,” John said.

“Yes, yes, let me just get started on this,” Sherlock said, and took a hair off the baby’s head. She started crying again.

“Sherlock!” John said. “You can’t just do that.”

“She won’t remember it,” Sherlock said. “Now, this technique isn’t a hundred percent certain, but it’ll show if there is any need to go through with the normal tests.” He started poking around in the kitchen, while John comforted the baby.

*

True to his word, Sherlock came with John and Maria when they went out. John continued to carry her, since he wasn’t sure Sherlock knew how to hold her, and that he had to support her head. He also wasn’t sure Sherlock wouldn’t just forget he was holding a baby and not a plaything, and put her down somewhere. He made Sherlock carry the shopping basket though.

“How old is she?” John asked when they were in the baby food section. Sherlock frowned for a while.

“Assuming Irene carried to term, between 5 months and 27 days and 6 months and 8 days,” Sherlock said. John grimaced.

“Ok, that was disturbingly exact. Well, at least we know what to get for her. I have to read up on this when we get back, but I think we’ll go with formula for now. If I’m not mistaken we can start giving her normal food soon.” He put a box of formula powder in the basket. Sherlock and Maria were looking at each other like they were having a stare off. “Sherlock? Did you listen?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and John just sighed. He supposed he should be grateful that Sherlock had come at all, and that the closest shop didn’t close for such inconsequential things as Christmas.

“Can you go pick out nappies? And please don’t pick pink ones,” John said, thinking of what Harry would say. Or rather yell. She’d probably know too, without even seeing Maria, due to some freaky older sister power.

“Why would I pick something pink?” Sherlock said. “She obviously has my complexion, and pink doesn’t work with it.” John just sighed again. The baby obviously didn’t have Sherlock’s complexion, but anything that kept him away from the pink would do.

He was waiting at the checkout when Sherlock came towards him, grinning in a vaguely disturbing way. John held out his hand. Sherlock showed him the nappies he had found, with a skull and crossbones pattern. John wisely decided not to say anything, it was after all Sherlock’s kid (supposedly), and if the nappies were sufficiently interesting maybe teaching Sherlock how to change them would be easier.

*

Sherlock was glad to be home. Shopping wasn’t something he particularly liked, and this trip to the store had been even more unpleasant than usual. He couldn’t stop looking at the baby. His eyes were drawn to her wherever she was. He just wanted to finish his testing, and when it was clear the baby wasn’t his he could leave her with child protective services. He and Irene never had anything approaching faithfulness, and thinking that the child was his was just preposterous. Even if she did have his complexion, and hair. She did look quite like her mother though, so Sherlock was quite sure that she was Irene’s.

He left John with the baby and went into the kitchen. His experimental technique for determining relations only needed the last steps, before it would indicate through colour how likely it was that the two people were related. He just needed to add the reactive agent, and it would indicate red. He was sure of it. Any minute now. It was... blue.

Sherlock left the kitchen.

“Is she yours?” John asked. He had put the baby back in the carrier and was using his laptop to do some research.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa.

“Blue,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“It was blue. She’s mine. My baby,” Sherlock said.

“Blue? Like a pregnancy test?” John said, but Sherlock could tell he had hoped that the baby was someone else’s, just like him.

“Should I...” Sherlock started, but he had no idea what should come next. Even if they hadn’t exactly planned to celebrate Christmas they had talked about going out. That wasn’t going to happen. In fact, it was possible it wasn’t going to happen in a very long time.

A baby. His baby.

“I need to lie down for a while,” Sherlock said, and stumbled into his room.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock finally felt like he wouldn’t faint anymore he went out of his room. John and the baby were gone, and it was not difficult to deduce that John had gone to bed and taken the baby with him, to make sure she wouldn’t wake up alone. Or wake Sherlock up. Because Sherlock would inevitably wake John anyway.

Still, he felt a bit lonely, so he sneaked up into John’s room and took the baby carrier down. He put it next to the sofa and lay down to think about things.

After an hour he heard the baby making small sounds, like she was waking up. He looked down into the baby carrier and two big green eyes looked up at him.

“What do you want now?” Sherlock asked. The baby didn’t answer, but crinkled her face together, so Sherlock quickly lifted her up so she wouldn’t cry and wake John. She smelled strange, and Sherlock was reminded of a case in which baby vomit had become an important clue. It wasn’t a bad smell, really, just a sort of sweet smell with a milky undertone. Sherlock guessed that all babies smelled like that. They wouldn’t smell of sweat since they didn’t have that kind of sweat glands, and she didn’t have any teeth either, so she wouldn’t have bad breath.

She seemed happy to be lifted, and grabbed on to Sherlock’s hair. She was babbling, and Sherlock knew enough about the linguistic development of children not to expect anything even remotely sensible. At this age they were just trying out sounds, and he had seen parents become all excited about something they perceived as mummy or daddy when it was really just nonsense.

“You have to sleep now,” Sherlock said, but the baby just pulled his hair in answer. “Sleep now.”

He decided to lie down, hoping that would put her to sleep.

*

When John got down in the morning he was greeted with the sight of Sherlock sleeping on the sofa with Maria on his stomach. He couldn’t stop himself from finding his mobile to take a picture. He contemplated sending it to Mycroft, but that would have been too cruel, so he made breakfast instead. When he was done with the scrambled eggs he went into the living room again. Sherlock was awake, holding a still groggy Maria to his chest.

“Delete the picture,” Sherlock said. John shook his head.

“No way. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen you do. It’s staying, so I can take it out when you’re being unreasonable and remind myself that you’ve got a softer side.”

Sherlock snorted, and then he took Maria with him to the bathroom. John assumed he would call if he needed help, so he ate his breakfast. Sherlock’s would go cold, but it usually did, and he could always reheat it if he didn’t want cold eggs.

When Sherlock was finished in the bathroom he went into the kitchen instead. Maria had started crying a bit, so John went after them to observe. And make tea. If Sherlock asked he was definitely making tea.

John did wonder how many times you could have your worldview changed in one day before it did permanent damage. Sherlock was sucking on Maria’s bottle to test the temperature, before he gave her the bottle and fed her like he hadn’t done anything else than raise kids. John stared a bit, but he felt that he was excused, considering the circumstances.

“I couldn’t very well presume to raise a child without knowledge,” Sherlock said. “Though all sites were strictly aimed at women. One could think we lived in the nineteenth century for how much they think fathers should be involved.”

“So we’re not looking for her mother then,” John said.

“No point. She made her intentions clear. She won’t be easy to find, if it’s at all possible, and I can’t go around the world looking for her now.”

“You can’t, no of course you can’t,” John mumbled.

“You think I shouldn’t keep her,” Sherlock said. He was looking at John with a peculiar expression, something John hadn’t seen on his face before.

“I think that this place, our apartment, our life, isn’t really suitable for an infant,” John said. “What are you going to do with her when you get a case?”

“I’m sure Mrs Hudson can watch her,” Sherlock said.

“What? No!” John said, raising his voice, and as an answer to that Maria immediately started crying. Sherlock started shushing her, and when that didn’t work he started singing instead. It wasn’t a melody John recognized, and the few words he could make out sounded French. It seemed to make her calmer anyway, and when she had stopped crying Sherlock gave her the bottle again.

“Babies can tell from your tone if you’re upset,” Sherlock said. “Don’t do it again.” With that he swept out of the kitchen and into his room. John had no idea what just happened, and if Sherlock’s room was at all suitable for kids, but he decided to leave it alone for the time being, and read up on what babies age six months needed.

*

Sherlock had put a blanket down on the floor of his room and put the baby on the blanket. He had cleaned up most of his mess, not that it was all that bad, and swept the floor.

He didn’t have any toys for her, but as soon as the shops opened tomorrow he would go out and buy some. He’d read that the development of children was encouraged by toys, and he wanted her to develop as quickly and brilliantly as possible. She would, of course, be intelligent. There was no alternative, not with her parents.

She was lying on her stomach, rolling around to her back, and then back to her stomach. This seemed to keep her amused, so Sherlock picked up his laptop again, to do some more research, trying to find something on exceptionally intelligent children, and when you could tell. He kept an eye on her though, wouldn’t do for something to happen to her. John would be upset.

When he looked up next she was lying on her back and had caught one foot in her hands. She was sucking on the big toe, and when she saw him looking she let out a high pitched sound. Sherlock suspected that intelligence proved itself slightly later than six months.


	3. Chapter 3

On the third day Maria started crying and wouldn’t stop. John considered killing himself, killing Sherlock, even killing the baby, but instead he went for a walk. Strangely, the crying hadn’t seemed to worry Sherlock, who had mumbled something about realizing her mother had left her, and normal development, and then he had walked around the apartment with Maria, shushing her softly and singing to her, and John just couldn’t take it. He had to leave.

In fact, he was counting the days until he could go back to work and have some normalcy. Strange, to think that something that would be considered, well, not normal, perhaps, but more normal than their regular life, should feel so incredibly alien to him.

He sat down in a café far away from the shopping areas and drank tea. And thought. Sherlock seemed quite decided on keeping Maria, and John had no idea how this would change their lives. He also had no idea how long it would take before Sherlock got bored with his kid. Though he would never admit it Sherlock probably fell in love with her the first time he looked at her after he’d confirmed that she was his. Why else would he have taken her from John’s room? It was possible he fell in love with her the first time he saw her, even if he didn’t know then. John had seen enough parents fall head over heels for their children to believe in some sort of intangible bond between them. Perhaps parents could smell which child was theirs, the way babies knew the smell of their mothers.

He smiled as he thought this, because Sherlock would consider it complete bollocks, of course. Then he considered getting something stronger than tea. He had nowhere to go though, and he wished he had more friends, because when his best one lost his mind there was nowhere else to go.

*

Sherlock considered crying himself after walking around with the baby for two hours after John had left. She wouldn’t stop crying, and for some reason it made him feel distressed. He considered the possibility of some neurochemical reaction, perhaps babies let out some kind of pheromones when crying to make adults around them want to care for them. It would make sense, and Sherlock had always known he had a more intact vomeronasal organ than most other adult humans. Still, it would make no sense since most others would not be able to sense it. He would have liked to test the existence of such a thing, but then he’d have had to put her down, and he didn’t want to do that. Other theories included sound and sight, both viable theories, but he couldn’t test them right now.

He just wished she’d stop crying for a bit. And that Irene hadn’t left her here and gone off to travel. Sherlock was fast sinking into some kind of despair, not something he’d ever had any kind of experience with, and he had no idea what to do.

When he felt tears in the corners of his eyes Sherlock decided to do something he hadn’t done in a very long time. He called his mother.

*

Zéphyrine Renée Holmes was sitting in the kitchen enjoying a cup of tea when her phone rang. She wasn’t going to answer it, having planned to do nothing but enjoy the holidays, but when the phone kept on ringing she decided she might as well answer. Having it ring was just as annoying.

“Holmes,” she answered briskly. There was breathing, and someone crying in the background. “Hello?” Someone drew a deep breath.

“Mummy, I need some help,” her youngest child said. Zéphyrine had to sit down because her legs suddenly felt weak.

“Sherlock, whatever you’ve done, you know that I love you,” she said. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be calling Mycroft?”

“No, mummy, I...” he said, but she gasped.

“You’re not in prison, are you?” she said. “Or in the hospital?”

“I’m at home,” Sherlock said, and Zéphyrine relaxed minutely. “I don’t know what to do.”

Zéphyrine calculated that she could be in Baker Street in one and a half hour if she left immediately, but she didn’t know if that was soon enough.

“Do you want me to come over?” she asked, because Sherlock was always the complicated one.

“Yes,” he said in a small voice.

“Should I call your brother? He is closer to you, he can be there while you wait for me.”

The lack of immediate protests told her that this was serious, whatever it was, even if Sherlock did protest, eventually. She hung up and got in her car, and while she drove she called Mycroft. Best to have a man on the premises if something went wrong. God knew that Sherlock could cause any amount of trouble as soon as someone stopped looking after him. No wonder something had happened over Christmas, what with Mycroft out of London and all.

As an afterthought she called her husband to let him know she was off to London. He tried to deal as little as possible with her sons, which was fair, she supposed. They weren’t the easiest people, and he didn’t really have the intellect for it, bless his heart. She loved him, but that wasn’t enough, especially not for Sherlock, who thought she should have picked someone smarter. She still waited for him to grow up and realize that intelligence wasn’t everything, but she might as well wait for her goats learning to talk.

*

Waiting for Mummy was horrible. Maria still wouldn’t stop crying, just took a small break for food and then she started again. Sherlock thought she must be getting tired, and dehydrated, but still, she just wouldn’t stop. Sherlock really felt sympathy for all those parents who just couldn’t stand it anymore. Not that he’d ever do something like that, but he could understand that weaker people might give in to some of their baser impulses.

Mycroft hadn’t shown up yet, so hopefully he didn’t think it important and would only show right before Mummy did. It would take her ninety minutes to drive from the mansion she and that man insisted on living in. If they’d lived in London instead Sherlock wouldn’t have had to wait.

Sherlock was pacing in the kitchen when he heard the door open. The footsteps told him it was Mycroft, and he sighed. Still, Mummy wouldn’t be far behind.

“Sherlock, I hear you require... good God, is that a child?” Mycroft said, and Sherlock smirked. One point to him.


	4. Chapter 4

“Yes, Mycroft, it’s a baby. Well guessed,” Sherlock said, sarcasm dripping. Mycroft sat down heavily in one of the chairs.

“If you stole a baby then...” Mycroft started, but he didn’t seem to know where to go with that sentence. Surely, stealing a baby would hardly be the worst thing Sherlock had done, but thinking about someone stealing Maria made him involuntarily tighten his grip on her.

“What then?” Sherlock said, because he couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass.

“Does Mummy know?” Mycroft asked.

“Does Mummy know what?” Sherlock asked back, smirking.

“Does she know you stole a baby?”

“No,” Sherlock said, because that was true. She didn’t know, because he hadn’t done it. Mycroft dragged his hands through his hair, and if Sherlock had known Mycroft would be this upset by the thought of Sherlock kidnapping a child he would have done it years ago. Though perhaps it was the thought of Mummy finding out and berating Mycroft for not keeping close enough tabs on Sherlock. Still, he wondered how long it would take Mycroft to figure out the truth.

“Whose is it?” Mycroft asked. He glared at Sherlock and Maria, who still hadn’t stopped crying, but was quieter now.

“You really don’t know?” Sherlock said. He lifted Maria closer to his face.

“He doesn’t know,” he said to her. “He really doesn’t know. Look at that.” He turned her around so she faced Mycroft, who grew even paler.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Very much so.”

If Sherlock had thought he’d managed to one up Mycroft before it was nothing compared to this. Mycroft had his mouth open but no sound would come out. Sherlock sniggered.

“Take a good look at uncle Mycroft, because you’ll probably never manage to get him this silent again. Then again, considering who your parents are, maybe you will,” he said to Maria. She was still making distressed noises, but Sherlock was already feeling so much better.

*

John was not having a good day. After hanging around in the café for as long as he dared he had to decide whether to go home or try somewhere else. No one he really felt he could impose on for a night was still in town, everyone taking advantage of the holidays to leave London. He should not only get new friends, but ones who didn’t get a whole week off at Christmas.

There was Lestrade, of course, but John didn’t feel like they knew each other well enough for him to sleep on Lestrade’s sofa, even if he probably would be offered to stay if Lestrade heard about the circumstances.

After deliberating with himself he decided to call Harry. She was away with Clara, but he had an extra key to her apartment, and sleeping on her sofa was preferable to going home.

She was busy with something (and John tried really hard not to figure out what), but she said that he could sleep on the sofa for as long as he wanted. So all that was left was going back to get the key from his bedroom. Shouldn’t be too difficult.

*

Zéphyrine was just about to ring the doorbell on 221B when Mycroft opened the door. Of course, he would know when she would show up. Or perhaps he was looking out the windows to see when her car arrived.

He looked a bit green around the gills, and Zéphyrine immediately prepared herself for the worst. Not the absolute worst, since they were still here, and not in the hospital, but there were quite a few horrible things she could imagine Sherlock having done, or have done to him, either by himself or by someone else.

Well, there was nothing to it. He had asked for her help, and she would give it. She straightened her back, in the pose her husband always referred to as ‘soldier going into war’, and ascended the stairs. Whatever it was she could deal with it.

Nothing could ever have prepared her for the image of Sherlock sitting on a horrible old sofa with a baby in his arms, shushing them when they came in.

Zéphyrine sank into an armchair of dubious origins and cleanliness and looked at Sherlock. Mycroft was obviously busying himself with making tea, bless him, so she could take her time before drinking her tea and having to deal with the situation.

“I couldn’t get her to sleep,” Sherlock said, in the softest voice she had ever heard him use. “But now she’s sleeping.” He looked down at the baby in his arms, and Zéphyrine almost felt like crying. She had never believed in everything the doctors had said about him when he was a child, but a mother’s opinion is not worth much compared to the professionals, because she is always biased, but this, here, it was proof. Proof that he could, and did, love.

Mycroft came with her tea, no milk, but then, this was Sherlock’s home and he had probably forgotten to buy some. According to Mycroft his flat mate was not as bad with household chores, but he had probably gone to visit family over the holiday. She drank the tea slowly while looking at Sherlock. He only had eyes for the girl in his arms. She wondered where the baby came from, because when he had visited her on Christmas eve there had been no mention of a baby, or anything to indicate a baby, and she was sure she would have noticed. Not that he was there very long, but long enough for her to figure out something like that.

She finished her tea and put the mug down (she would have to buy the boy some proper china one of these days).

“Sherlock,” she said, quietly so she wouldn’t wake the baby. “Whose baby is that?”

“She’s mine,” Sherlock said, tightening his grip on her.

“Yes, honey, I know that, but...” she started, but Mycroft interrupted her.

“Mummy,” he said, and she knew.

“Oh,” she said, because this was unexpected. Very unexpected. “You mean...”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, looking fragile and smug at the same time, like he couldn’t figure out his emotions at all.

“Oh, Sherlock, this is lovely,” Zéphyrine said. “I’m a grandmother. What is her name?”

Mycroft stared at her, and Sherlock now looked very surprised, but also pleased. She wondered what he had expected of her. Obviously not this, but she didn’t care. She moved to sit next to him on the sofa, to get a good look at the girl for the first time. Now that she could see her face she could see the likeness, of course. She felt her face soften as she looked at the girl. Six months was her estimation.

“Her name is Maria Elisabeth Adler-Holmes,” Sherlock said. “I’m thinking of adding another name.”

“Adler? Like the opera singer?” Zéphyrine asked.

Sherlock grimaced.

“Unfortunately,” he said.


	5. Chapter 5

When he opened the door to 221 John couldn’t hear any baby sounds. This didn’t necessarily mean that Sherlock had gotten Maria to stop crying, because if they were in his room John wouldn’t hear anything in the hallway. Still, it was a good sign.

John used the door that went into the kitchen, because he needed a proper cup of tea before going over to Harry’s. Who knew what kind of tea Harry kept.

As he opened the door he could hear voices, but they went silent before he could identify more than Sherlock’s.

“John? Make a pot while you’re at it,” Sherlock said, quietly instead of yelling. Maria must be asleep.

John made the tea, as slowly as he could, because he was not sure he’d be able to face whomever Sherlock had invited over. His day was strange enough as it was, no need to make it worse.

Carrying a tray with teapot and mugs (four mugs, Sherlock had helpfully told him), John made his way into the living room. He would probably have dropped the tray if he didn’t have good reflexes and a tendency not to be easily chocked.

The chairs had been turned around to face the sofa instead of the TV, and Mycroft was sitting in the grey one. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with Maria. Next to him sat an older woman, sixty perhaps, who had a certain resemblance to Sherlock. John put the tray down on the table and sat down in the other chair.

“You must be John,” the woman said, and John nodded. “Good. Mycroft, make yourself useful and pour us a cuppa.”

John was almost certain that this was Sherlock and Mycroft’s mother, but he wasn’t sure until he heard Mycroft mutter “yes, Mummy”, and start pouring the tea.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” ‘Mummy’ said, and John stood up. He wouldn’t be seen as having poor manners, no matter the shock he’d gotten.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh, I’m not the queen,” she said. “Zéphyrine Holmes.” She stretched out her hand, and John had a moment of panic when he didn’t know if he was supposed to kiss it, but he managed to make the shake he’d settled on look natural, or so he hoped. Given that his living room contained both Sherlock and Mycroft, and the unknown entity of their mother, maybe he shouldn’t hope too much.

“John Watson,” he said as he shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Holmes.”

“Zéphyrine will do,” she said, and sat down again.

Mycroft gave him a mug with tea, and he gratefully took it. He looked at Sherlock, who had been quiet during this. He hadn’t even protested against Mycroft, something John had thought was impossible. Sherlock glared at Mycroft though, so it was probably all due to Zéphyrine. Strangely, this was comforting, because it meant that Sherlock hadn’t had a personality change because of the baby.

*

Sherlock mostly wanted people to leave, now that Maria had finally fallen asleep. Mycroft was annoying him by existing, and Mummy. Well. He tended to forget how much he disliked having someone around who could make him do things with just a look. Even if she was helpful.

John and Mummy were talking about something, his job, probably, or Sherlock’s health. Something boring. Mycroft was regarding him thoughtfully.

“You know,” Mycroft said, “I never thought you would spawn.”

Sherlock didn’t think this really needed comment, so he just glared. He held Maria a bit tighter, so Mycroft couldn’t take her away from him, because he wasn’t sure yet that Mycroft didn’t want to lock his baby up somewhere and force her to become a genius worker in his quest to take over the world. Since he couldn’t have Sherlock Maria had to be the next best thing. And Adler wasn’t exactly stupid either.

Mycroft tutted.

“I wouldn’t do that, Sherlock,” he said. “But if it makes you feel better about caring for her, then by all means, pretend what you like.”

Sherlock didn’t even look at Mycroft this time.

“Well, this has been lovely. Mummy, Sherlock, Dr Watson, I’ll be taking my leave now,” Mycroft said. “I have some things to attend to.”

“Start a war, you mean,” Sherlock muttered.

“Sherlock!” Zéphyrine said. “Mycroft, I wish you would stay a while longer, it’s not every day I get to have both my boys in the same room at the same time, but I guess it can’t be helped.”

*

When Mycroft had left Zéphyrine felt it was time to breach some more sensitive subjects. She loved both her boys, of course, but they tended to wind one another up like no one else. The other siblings didn’t seem to do that, just Sherlock and Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” she said softly, and put a hand on his arm, “is she coming back?”

“Who?” Sherlock said, seemingly in his own world. Zéphyrine knew that wasn’t the case, though.

“Miss Adler,” she said.

“Maybe,” Sherlock said. He didn’t sound concerned at all that she had just given up her child and that he was essentially Maria’s sole guardian.

“Hmm,” was all Zéphyrine found to say. She would feel much better if Sherlock had at least spoken to miss Adler, had talked about the future for Maria. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t feel the need for any kind of stability. He probably thought that chaos was good for children, because he himself always sought that when he was small. He didn’t realize that if he hadn’t had that stability he wouldn’t have managed to become as intelligent as he did, and if she told him he wouldn’t believe her.

“Do you want her to come back?”, John asked, bless his heart. Sherlock looked thoughtful.

“Maybe,” he said at last, ever the mysterious one, her youngest son.

“Well, I know you won’t call your sisters, so I’ll just have to do it instead,” she said briskly. There was really no need for her to linger, and she could tell Sherlock didn’t want her there anymore.

“You do that,” Sherlock said.

“You could at least call Abianne, but I know you won’t,” Zéphyrine said. “She’ll be wanting to come home for a while, I expect.”

“You do what you want, Mummy,” Sherlock said.

“I will,” she replied before standing up to leave.

As she closed the door and started to walk down the stairs she heard John exclaim “you have sisters?”, and realized that she’d revealed another of Sherlock’s secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Audience participation time: weird/brilliant names for the Holmes' sisters.


End file.
